Falling Slowly Silent
by Andry
Summary: A moment between Ginny and Hermione.


Falling Slowly Silent  
  
She wasn't quite sure what had happened. Over and over in her head she had gone over the things that had happened and how it had happened and perhaps why it had happened and yet she still didn't know *what happened*. Logically, she retraces the events in her head, trying to stuff and bend and tuck and fold it till it can make sense, but what she doesn't see is that it already sense - just not the kind she's used to.  
  
Ginny Weasley watches and knows this. She sees the thoughts tumbling through Hermione's head - well, not tumbling, because nothing would dare tumble in a head as orderly as that - and longs to take her aside and say, "Here is what happened and here is why and here is what will happen next," because that's what she's sure Hermione wants to be told, but in truth, Ginny isn't very sure herself.  
  
She hadn't even known it was *going* to happen. It wasn't like she had planned it. She'd never given it much thought - girls, after all, had never presented themselves except occasionally to her brothers, and so they had never occupied much space in Ginny's head. But now here was this thing that she had done that she had never known she could do and it had been so thrilling and so new and, well, she had even kind of liked it.  
  
What did that mean? Was she a dyke? She didn't think so. She didn't feel any different. Well, check that - she felt a bit sad, as Harry hadn't even looked in her general direction since the Yule Ball had been announced. Too busy looking at Cho, she had long since realized.  
  
It was a week after Ginny had kissed her that they found themselves alone again in the common room, most of the rest of Gryffindor gone home for the winter break. Hermione of course made herself busy working on a research project for Care of Magical Creatures, but Ginny felt comfortable sitting curled up in one of the chairs in the common room, picking the toes of her socks, watching Hermione with wide open eyes and frank curiousity. After several long minutes Hermione set down her quill, the end tipped too black where her hand had shaken dipping it into the ink bottle, but she did not look up.  
  
Ginny said nothing, and the silence stretched. Every so often Hermione's eyes would shift up for an instant, brown would lock on brown and she would look away back to the paper, pale crimson flush bleeding pinkly onto her cheeks. Ginny remained still, even her eyes. At last Hermione spoke.  
  
"So who'll you be going to the Ball with?" She asked, her voice only barely betraying her nervousness. Ginny felt vaguely disappointed. The topic didn't suit Hermione at all, and furthermore it wasn't what she wanted to talk about.  
  
"No one." There was a swift silence. The fire crackled. "You?"  
  
"No one."  
  
More silence. Ginny went on picking at her socks, studying the heavy brown hair falling in a thick, wavy curtain across her face from the crown of Hermione's head to brush, featherlight, across the crisp white parchment.   
  
However long this took, it didn't matter. Hermione was too straightforward to let this sit between them much longer, and Ginny was much too patient not to wait her out. The sound of the crackling fire was a beautiful and ironic backdrop, and Ginny appreciated it greatly.  
  
Finally, Hermione said, "Um. Ginny. You know . . . last week . . ."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Hermione swallowed, quickly. "Was, um . . . were you . . . because, I'm . . ."  
  
"I know."  
  
"So, we're good then."  
  
"Of course."  
  
But she couldn't quite let it go - "Ginny . . . I don't mean to pry, you know that, of course if you don't want to tell me you shouldn't, but are - are you - because I thought you and Harry -"  
  
"Oh, well . . . yes."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Harry and. I." She felt the familar, hated blush creeping up her neck, and closed her eyes with shame. Would she never be able to say his name?  
  
"Oh." Hermione seemed to mull over this for a moment, sucking on the end of her quill. Ginny felt a sudden need to explain herself better, and stumbled, trying to say everything but trying not to be too crude or too blunt or too subtle or too assuming or not assuming enough and making it seem impersonal  
  
" - But I still like you." That was easy, but Ginny's afraid when Hermione snaps her head up, eyes wide.  
  
"Oh . . ."  
  
And Ginny finally tears her eyes away now, ducking her head, feeling the the water gather silently in her eyes. But she still needs to hear it, definitively, needs to understand that there won't be any more thrilling newtasting Hermione kisses for her.  
  
"So you don't like . . . at all?"  
  
"No, Ginny, I like you, I do, I just . . ."  
  
Slowly, slowly, Ginny's eyes have been lifted back up and the rich brown velvet takes the words out of Hermione's mouth and spills them across the floor. That at last cracks whatever was between them - the stiff, awkward bundle of tension and discomfort, and Ginny is suddenly striding across the common room and finally they're together, a mess, a mass of limbs and Hermione's soft lips, Ginny closes her eyes, that thrill, that exquisite, exciting thrill, running all through her body to the very edges of her fingernails and back and through again. Hermione makes a small, soft sound and Ginny pulls back, finally, an entire world contained in those few brief seconds.  
  
Hermione studies her and Ginny studies her back, and her eyes trail over to the bottle of ink that has spilled all over the lovely clean sheet of white paper and onto the sleeve of Hermione's robe.  
  
"The ink."  
  
"I know."  
  
And once more they lapse into silence. 


End file.
